


The Same Principles Apply

by lielabell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, First Kiss, M/M, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell/pseuds/lielabell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Interpersonal relationships are not his area.  Not in the slightest.  Not in the least.  Not until John, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same Principles Apply

Interpersonal relationships are not his area. Not in the slightest. Not in the least. Not until John, that is. John: loyal, beautiful, less idiotic than most. John. Who has taken something that was dull and boring and rendered it supremely interesting. John, as in _my dear John_. Who shakes his head and clears his throat and lifts his eyebrows all in an effort to remind Sherlock that yes, not good. Not good at all. John, whose eyes light up and who mouth curves so appealingly. Who is so honestly and genuinely impressed by the most obvious deductions. John, whose presence has become somehow essential to Sherlock's happiness in a way that no others ever has.

John, who is currently out with _a very nice girl, thank you._ Who is not very nice, actually. Look at her hands, John. It's clear in her nails, in the subtle callus on her middle finger and thumb. But why would John notice that when she's smiling at him so invitingly and tilting her head, lowering it so that she can peer up at him through her lashes.

He shouldn't be surprised. He isn't, in fact. John, for all he is able to accelerate Sherlock's heart with a soft glance and a half formed smile, is as oblivious as the rest of humanity when it comes to such things. But none of that is Sherlock's concern. Yet another thing that John has made clear with his sighs and his throat clearing. Facts, logic, reason. These things have no place in a romantic entanglement. Which is what makes them so very dull. Why bother, when a well deduced observation will bring the whole thing tumbling down onto it's head?

Why bother with John at all? Why be bothered? Why sit in one's room playing one's violin in such an exceedingly melancholy manner? Why fidget and pace and hurl books against the wall? Why settle in the chair that gives the best view of the street, fingers steepled, eyes half closed, and wait and wait and wait for the foot steps that never come. Not until well after he expected them. Not until morning.

And then he's there, that soft look on his face. The one Sherlock can produce with a causally dropped comment, "he was sleeping with her sister" or "a night watchman, clearly," but was put there instead by _a very nice girl, thank you_. Who drinks far too much and steals when she thinks that no one will notice and has broken more than a string of hearts with that pretty smile. Broken homes. Broken people. Will break John, if he's not careful.

But it's not Sherlock's place to say. Not his place to point out the obvious. What John would see if he only opened his eyes and looked.

What would John see if he actually _looked_? If he catalogued and reasoned and deducted?

Would his eyes widen? Would his breath come fast? Would his hands reach out to bridge that space between them? The space Sherlock has pondered and labeled and never yet been able to breech, no matter how intricate his experiments may be.

But John looks without seeing. John listening without hearing. John notices nothing. Nothing that matters, anyway.

"Long night?" he asks, yawning a bit as he rolls his shoulders, heading for his room without pausing for the answer. Clearly not interested in whatever that answer might be.

"Long night," Sherlock repeats. And it was, for John. Shadows below his eyes, rimmed red with fatigue, body moving slowly, feet barely keeping from shuffling, another yawn: repressed. A hand, fisted, rubbing at the center of his lower back. Muscles sore. From what, Sherlock very well knows, but would be much happier if he didn’t. "A very long night, indeed."

"Oh?" John pauses, hand on the rail of the stairs, head half turned back. Interest sparked. "Have a new case, then?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, taps his lips with his fingers. Takes a breath. Signs, all of them: plain as day and longing to be read. Signs, all of them: ignored.

"A case," he says. Because it is. A very curious case indeed. One that snags his attention, steals time from what matters. What matters? Murder? Motive? The inner workings of a truly brilliant criminal mind? Or John? The world weary slump of his shoulder. The psychosomatic limp. The way his eyes brighten at the thought of a case, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips. Anticipation, that. Clear for anyone to see. But no one will. No one but Sherlock. Who captures and catalogues his movements, filing them under John, _my dear John_ , in the hard drive that is his brain.

A yawn, not repressed this time, widens John’s mouth, shuts his eyes. His eyes which are never really open. Not in any way that matters. “Tell me about it later?” he asks, foot already on the stair, interest set aside in favor of sleep. Dull. Boring. Predictable.

Sherlock doesn't reply. The question requires no answer. John requires no answer. He sighs, closes his eyes. Wishes he could close his mind, be as blind and ignorant and stupid as the rest of them.

It is not the first time he's wished that. Adolescence, while never easy, was particularly unpleasant for him and it didn't take a genius to recognize that a slightly less insightful look at the world would have improved matters significantly. But that wish was fleeting, hardly more than a surface thought, quickly analyzed and dismissed. This is not.

This is deeper. Stronger. Backed with longing and desperation and a want so strong that Sherlock can't ignore it, no matter how he tries.

The steps reach the top of the stairs, cross the hall, then pause, right outside of John's door. Why the pause? There is no reason for it. No deadbolt to turn. No keys to fumble for. Sherlock opens his eyes, cocks his head to the side and listens. A deep breath, then a shallow one. Quick footsteps back down the hall. He turns his head, eyes narrowing as John appears at the top of the stairs.

"Sherlock?" His voice is full of hesitation, questions within questions.

"John?"

John frowns, his eyes clouding over. "Never mind," he says, his shoulders slumping a few centimeters more than normal. He turns on his heel and moves slowly back down the hall.

"John," Sherlock repeats, pushing to his feet, heart rate well above his base line, hands gone damp from nervousness. Nervousness. Him. Amazing what wonders John can produce.

He moves without conscious choice: up the stairs, down the hall. No pausing outside of doorways for him, though. He's through the door and into the room before John has time to do more than blink with surprise.

Sherlock's eyes dart around the room, noting everything before settling back on what truly matters.

John.

John, who is standing slightly off center in the room. Hands bunched in the fabric of the jumper he paused in the process of pulling off. His hands flatten out, fingers smoothing the pale gray wool back into place. "Did you need me for something?" he asks, his voice colored by confusion and fond exasperation.

Sherlock links his hands behind his back and begins to pace. "I'm no good with interpersonal relationships."

"Ah." John sits on the edge of his bed, hands braced against his knees. "This is about that case, then? Go ahead, tell me the details." His expression is back to one of avid interest.

Sherlock shakes his head. "It's not my area," he says as if John hadn't spoken. "But even so, I'm willing to make the effort. For you."

John's reaction is not one that Sherlock would have predicted. He doesn't become embarrassed or uncomfortable (probability: seventy-two percent). He isn't noticeably angry or upset (probability: fourteen percent). He doesn't feign ignorance (probability: eight percent). He doesn't take Sherlock into his arms (probability: four percent.) He doesn't kiss him (probability: two percent).

Instead he says, "I know." Softly. And with a look of infinite sadness on his face.

Oh.

 _Oh._

That changes everything. And nothing. Sherlock closes his eyes, unwilling to face the facts written on John's face, that soft, sad look. The half out-reached hand, the tightening of all the lines of his body. Accepting, understanding, but rejecting all the same.

He turns on his heel, heads for the door. No words need to be spoken. There is nothing left for him to say.

"Wait." John's quick step, panic in his voice as his fingers close around Sherlock's bicep. "Please."

Desperation. But for what? For reassurances that nothing will change? That they can remain friends? Sherlock will not give them. He clenches his hands, moves forward, breaking free from John's grip. He marvels for a moment at how very different the physical is from the emotional. The knowledge is not new, but the situation makes his conclusions personal in a way that they've never been before.

"Please," John says again, his voice breaking, and this time Sherlock cannot ignore him.

He turns back reluctantly, sees the upset he has caused and curses himself for a fool. This is why he has made a conscious effort to avoid emotional entanglements. Because emotions are complicated and impossible to predict. They torment as much as they comfort; disrupt as much as they soothe.

John licks his lips, holds up a hand, which tremors slightly. "Please," he says again, and Sherlock decides that he's not at all fond of the word.

"Please, what?" he jeers, defensive and not interested in hiding it.

John takes a step closer, his posture radiating his uncertainty. "You're my mate," he says, his voice hesitant. "My best mate. You must know how much," he trails off with a shake head, then takes a breath and tries again. "Your friendship is my most valued possession. I would hate for anything to change that."

"Let's not ruin the friendship, John?" Sherlock sighs. "How dull."

"That not what I meant," John replies, shaking his head and going a bit red in the face. From the way John's eyes won't met his own, Sherlock concludes that he's lying.

Sherlock says as much, which causes John to splutter denials. Which, in turn, causes Sherlock to roll his eyes. "Why do you even bother? I know you far to well for you to get away with it."

John sucks in a breath, torn between maintaining his pathetic charade and coming out with the truth already. Then his spine straightens and resolve hardens his features. "Alright, I'll admit it. I fancy you. I do. But I know you too, Sherlock. I know how quick your interest flags. And I'd rather just," another shake of the head, desperation creeping back into his tone, "I don't want to lose you. Ever. I'd rather be mates, if it means I'll always have you in my life."

"Always." Sherlock frowns, disliking John’s use of the word. "You should know that always is never guaranteed."

"Yes, I know that." John dashes a hand through his hair. "Honestly, Sherlock, you can be infuriating to talk to. Don't be so obtuse, we both know you're always three steps ahead of me in any conversation. You know what I'm telling you, why I'm telling you it. You probably knew before I even opened my bloody mouth."

Sherlock smiles, because yes. He does. "Right. Fine. Then let's skip ahead, shall we, to the part where I say that I love you."

“Real funny, that,” John snaps, instantly on the defensive. “Look at Sherlock being clever.”

Sherlock studies him for a moment, taking in the tense posture, the hands balled into fists and, most telling of all, the way that John's eyes keep darting to Sherlock's and then away again. Anger as a mask for hope. He smiles, realizing that the last piece has just fallen into place. And all that is left is to get John to admit it.

"Ah. That explains it," he says, his tone deliberately causal.

"Explains what?"

Sherlock gives him a bland look. "You doubt my sincerity. You really shouldn't. I do love you, John Watson."

John drops his eyes, cheeks flushing as he shoves his hands in his pockets. "You can't possibly," he says, self-deprecation obvious in his tone and his hunched stance.

Sherlock reaches out, cups his cheek, tilts his head up. When John's eyes are on his again, he speaks. "I have examined all the evidence, John. It is the only possible outcome."

John smiles in spite of himself. "This isn't a case, Sherlock. You can't treat it like one."

"Of course I can. The same principles apply. Really, John, I thought better of you than to doubt me. My deductions are rarely, if ever, wrong."

"I," John trails off, breath coming out in short, shallow bursts.

Sherlock drops his hand, retreats a step, gives him the distance his body is asking for. John, unobservant fool that he is, panics. His eyes widen and he rushes forward, catching hold Sherlock's shoulders and mashing his mouth against Sherlock's tightly closed lips.

"Sherlock, _please_ " John murmurs against his skin, and Sherlock gives in, lets his mind shut off and his body take over. Hands, tongues, lips, teeth. A groan. Bodies pushing towards each other, eliminating that space between them, the one that Sherlock has never, previously, been able to breech. Erasing it, as if it never was there to begin with.

Interpersonal relationships are not Sherlock’s area. Never had any interest in them. Never had a reason to care. Never, until John, that is. John: strong, thoughtful, steadfast. John. Who has taken Sherlock’s world and turned it upside down. John, always _my dear John_. Who tugs at Sherlock’s shirt until buttons pop and skin is exposed. Who mutters and moans and writhes against Sherlock, letting him know that yes, good. So very good. John, whose eyes burn bright and whose breath comes in gasps. Whose hands trail down Sherlock's spine sending oxytocin flooding into Sherlock's brain. John, who pants and begs and comes apart in Sherlock's arms: beautiful in so many ways.


End file.
